


New Wounds

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Imprisonment, M/M, Mindfuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-01
Updated: 2008-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:44:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in an AU version of the Five Years Ago universe (make a left turn before Past Hiro arrives on the scene). Peter learns to deal with captivity and his “brother.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Prompt #9: "Always wondered what this'd be like" for [](http://un-love-you.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://un-love-you.livejournal.com/)**un_love_you**
> 
>  **Warnings:** Spoilers for Five Years Gone. Graphic violence, harsh language, slash, dubious consent. Dark fic. You’ve been warned.

I remember the first time I thought there was something really wrong with Nathan. He looked no different, although I hadn’t seen him in person for almost two years. I expected him to look… I don’t know. More presidential, maybe. Matt Parkman, who’d been running my interrogation, leapt to his feet when Nathan burst into the room, attended by three secret service agents. Seeing him here, I felt a familiar push-pull thrill: half frustration that Nathan was coming to rescue me, and half-relief at being rescued. But Nathan didn’t speak to me. Instead, he said to Matt, “Any progress?”

 

Matt shook his head. “He hasn’t told us anything useful, Mister President.”

 

Nathan looked me over with a derisive head-to-toe sweep that didn’t meet my eyes. “If he doesn’t cooperate, hurt him,” he told Matt, and swept back out of the room.

 

Matt, who until now had confined his menacing to the verbal variety, smiled at me. I was simply confused. The Nathan I remembered would never let his brother be hurt, if for no other reason than that I belonged to him, and he didn’t like other people touching his property. I knew things had been different between us since the bomb, but we were still brothers, weren’t we? If we were, though, blood had clearly ceased to mean as much to Nathan as it used to.

 

After that, it didn’t take me long to cooperate. It was ridiculously easy to hurt me, after all. They didn’t have to be careful. I remember the first time Matt shot me in the knee. I wished I were dead, I wished I could actually die, the pain was that bad. Digging the butt of the gun into the wound, he said, “Tell me where they are, and this can all stop.” He must have said that twenty times, his voice horribly calm and reasonable, but sharp enough to break through the red haze of pain. He kept this up until I died.

 

I couldn’t die for long, of course. My powers didn’t work in this room, an ugly white box with one glass wall. They must have had a way to reverse whatever blocked my powers just long enough for me to come back to life, every time. Whether it was some new technology or that damned Haitian, I never knew. Not that it mattered: trapped and powerless was trapped and powerless, no matter how it was happening. They could kill me as many times as they needed to. I stopped counting after twelve.

 

After I told them everything, life improved a little. Matt hurt me a few more times, just to be sure he’d gotten everything, or maybe because he’d grown addicted to the sound of my hoarse screams, the sick, wet sound of a heavy blow crushing a joint. There were a few blessed days of nothingness, in which no one came to torture me or ask me questions. It was then that my mind began to work again, and I came to realize the absolute hopelessness of my situation. I had told them everything, and I knew with a certain, sinking dread that they’d been able to use what I told them. Niki was dead. Hiro, Hana, dead. Probably Noah, too. I wasn’t sure if they’d actually kill Claire, her being the president’s illegitimate daughter and all. Maybe that was reason enough to wipe her out, assuming that they could find a way. I was reasonably certain they could find a way.

 

This was the point at which I started weighing my options. If my friends were gone: dead, now, even those I hadn’t killed in New York… If Nathan, the most important person of all, had abandoned me… But I couldn’t believe that, yet. Nathan had to be playing some angle. I just had to wait and see what he would do.

 

So when Nathan came back to me, I’d been expecting it. I wasn’t sure how long it was after Matt left for the last time. Days, I’m sure. It was hard to tell day from night in the constant brightness of my little white box, but I slept when I was tired, and no one bothered me.

 

I didn’t hear when the door opened; I was locked in my own little world when I suddenly became aware of Nathan smiling down at me. He wore a very nice suit.

 

“I’m glad you decided to cooperate,” he said. His secret service escort wasn’t with him today: he was alone. I was sitting on the floor in the corner of my cell, knees drawn up to my chest.

 

“Hi,” I said, not realizing until I’d said it how ludicrous a thing it was to say. I pushed off of the floor, wrenching myself upright. I felt stiff, sore; I must have been sitting in that corner a long time. I stood looking at him, and he at me. Apparently, he expected me to say something. I didn’t really want to beg for help. Always, always, Nathan knew what needed to be done. Always. I’d come to him, tell him what was happening, and he would _do_ something about it. It may not be the thing I wanted him to do, but he always tried to help. I never had to ask. I never had to beg.

 

Now Nathan offered no advice, no commands. He just watched.

 

“Are you going to help me?” I asked finally.

 

Nathan smiled: an amused, smug smile. “Why should I?”

 

I was puzzled. The way to understand Nathan was to understand his goal; there was something he wanted me to do. Act a certain way, do a certain thing. That was how you got what you wanted from him; pay attention to what _he_ wanted. He wasn’t giving me any hints here. Why should he help me? An excellent question. After a moment, I decided I should try an answer I knew would appeal to him.

 

Nathan wasn’t expecting the kiss, I guess. He pulled back quickly and stared at me for a long time, his smile vanished and replaced with calculating coldness. “Peter,” he said. “You still have the power to surprise me.”

 

I waited. Nathan said nothing more, did nothing more, but he didn’t leave. There was still something he wanted me to do. “Are you going to help me or what?” I asked.

 

“Do I have a reason to help you?” he asked, all infuriating aloofness.

 

I thought I had it figured out then. I had put the right key in the lock; now I had to turn it. I watched him for a second, and when he kept looking at me expectantly, I pulled off my shirt. Something flashed in Nathan’s eyes—surprise, or maybe just interest—as he watched me drop my pants to the ground as well and turn away from him, bracing myself against the wall.

 

I heard him move, closing my eyes as I felt him loom behind me. He placed one hand on my back, tracing the line of my spine. Next he ran his hands down my sides, leaning in close to my ear as if to inhale my scent. Then he was against me, the soft, expensive cloth of his suit against my back, his arms wrapped around me, his face buried in my neck. “Is this the way you usually get my attention?” he murmured.

 

“What else do you want me to do?” I asked, and winced at the desperate edge to my voice. Submission. That was the way to bring out the protector in Nathan. Be vulnerable. Need his help. I’d told myself I wouldn’t beg, but I was getting close.

 

“This is fine,” he whispered. “This is good.”

 

He held me for a moment, his chest pressed to my back. I could feel him breathing. I turned within the circle of his arms, facing him. I kissed him again, and he let me, but it was different than usual. He didn’t demand, didn’t take what had been his for years. It seemed he’d forgotten all that had happened between us, all we’d done together. I felt a faint nervous flutter at that idea: that I was forgettable to Nathan.

 

I had no back-up plan, though, so I’d have to make Nathan remember why I was worth helping. I kissed him again, this time pressing against him. Pushing a knee gently between his legs, I could feel his hardness. At least I still had that effect on him. I pulled out of the kiss, resting my forehead against his. “Well?” I asked.

 

Nathan let go of me and took a step back. He unbuttoned his pants, let them fall, pushed down briefs—and since when had it been that instead of boxers? Maybe it was a Presidential thing. Then he just waited, unhurried, for me to make the next move.

 

I spit into my palm, took him in my hand. Nathan stared at me as I worked, and his eyes were so calculating I couldn’t meet them. I watched my hand instead, concentrated on the hot, heavy feel of him, on firm strokes pulling gently, the way he’d always liked it. Nathan grabbed my wrist to stop me and pulled me around to face away from him again. A firm hand on my shoulder guided me to the floor. He knelt behind me and fisted a hand in my hair, dragging my head down to the floor so my ass was raised obscenely.

 

I heard him spit, heard the sound of flesh on flesh as he stroked himself. Then the head of his cock was at my entrance, one hand gripping my hip. I had expected Nathan to be more careful—he’d always cared about his own comfort, even if he didn’t always give his full attention to mine, but he’d made no effort to prepare me at all. “Nathan?”

 

“Shh,” he hissed in my ear, pushing into me, almost dry but for a little saliva.

 

My pain tolerance was high, but it was different knowing I wasn’t going to heal immediately, with my powers not working. I gritted my teeth, but I couldn’t help a tense whimper as he shoved brutally into me, one thrust to take him just inside, that first sharp-painful push past tight muscle. “Shh,” he repeated, and he stroked my belly gently as I trembled, trapped between him and the floor.

 

I tried to relax, tried to make it easier, but it burned, and when Nathan moved to go deeper I cried out again. It had never been like this before with Nathan. Yes, it was always about power, always a bit of a mind-fuck, but this felt different. This felt cruel.

 

I suddenly regretted not doing this face-to-face, because now I was constantly repeating to myself, _It’s okay, it’s Nathan, whatever he does is okay because you know he loves you, deep down, in the end, he does what he does because he loves you._ If I didn’t know better I’d think it was a stranger on top of me, inside me, each brutal thrust different from my memories of the feel of Nathan, the rhythm of his body.

 

Once he was all the way in, he held still for a moment, right hand still clutching my hip, left hand tracing swirling patterns my chest. “Always wondered what this’d be like,” he whispered.

 

What the hell was that supposed to mean? I tried to pull back to ask him, but then Nathan began to move, and I concentrated on breathing, on fighting through the pain, on not hating him. Each long, smooth stroke burned inside of me, and Nathan kept it up, not going slower or faster, just relentless, like clockwork, whispering “Shhh” whenever I cried out.

 

At last, when I thought another moment of pain might break me, he clutched my hips with bruising force, shuddering as he spilled into me. He pressed against my back, then, still buried inside me, and wrapped his arms around my waist. “Good boy, Peter,” he whispered. Then he pulled out, the loss so swift and painful it made me gasp. He straightened his clothes and he left. He didn’t say anything about helping me, and I couldn’t ask. I knew Petrellis kept promises, but after that, I wasn’t sure there was anything left of the brother I’d known, if I could count on anything I knew about him to be correct.

 

Nathan came to me whenever he needed a lift. Fucking me into the ground seemed to cheer him up. He barely spoke to me. I promised myself I wouldn’t ask him for help again, but I couldn’t stop speaking to him. The brother I loved was in there somewhere, and the fact that he kept coming back to see me meant that he still loved me too, at least in some small way.

 

Once, when he was on his way out, I tried to ask him about my friends. “What happened to Hiro?” I asked. He hit me, the back of his hand flying against my cheek, and walked out without a word. Strangely, that was the thing that at last made me sure something was wrong with my brother.

 

The next time Nathan came to see me, I spoke to him again. After we fucked, I took his hand gently, respectfully, before he could walk out. “Nathan?”

 

He smiled at me. For some reason he liked to hear his name, to hear me whisper it when we kissed, to hear me scream it when he was inside me. It seemed to have won me a moment of indulgence, at least. “What, Peter?”

 

“Remember the day Dad died?” I asked.

 

He narrowed his eyes at me, but he didn’t leave. “Yeah.”

 

“You remember how you stayed with me that day?”

 

“Sure,” Nathan said, buttoning up his pants distractedly.

 

I began to feel ill. “You had so much to do, but you stayed with me because I was so upset. You said you needed to be with me.”

 

“Yeah, I remember,” he said. He began to re-tie his tie. “Is there a point to this story?”

 

_You’re not my brother,_ I wanted to say, but “I need you, Nathan,” was what came out of my mouth.

 

Nathan smiled, but it was a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Great. That’s great, Pete.” He tousled my hair. “I need you too.” He swept out of the room.

 

I had my answer. Sure, he remembered that day. Remembered how he’d left immediately after giving me the news. Remembered how he’d refused to stay and comfort me, lost in his own grief and guilt. Nathan would never have forgotten any of that. This meant the man who’d been fucking me for weeks wasn’t Nathan. All this time, he hadn’t been Nathan. And if he wasn’t Nathan, that could only mean… Something I’d known already, something I’d been learning for weeks: Nathan was dead. I went through all this for nothing, because Nathan was dead.

 

I retreated to the corner of my room. I would fix this. Whoever the man was—the man who wasn’t Nathan—I would find a way to make it right. If Nathan was dead, then every stab of rage and hurt I’d felt in the last few weeks, every urge to lash out that I’d repressed because I would forgive Nathan anything, every one of those could now find an outlet. I had no reason to hold back anymore. With Nathan gone, I had nothing left to lose. I would find a way to kill the man wearing Nathan’s body.  


* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter realizes who’s been playing with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [](http://flwrpwr-vampyre.livejournal.com/profile)[**flwrpwr_vampyre**](http://flwrpwr-vampyre.livejournal.com/)’s comment, and written for the [](http://un-love-you.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://un-love-you.livejournal.com/)**un_love_you** challenge, prompt 02: “I was wrong about you”.

Peter had plenty of time to think. Masochistically, relentlessly, he replayed every moment of his interaction with not-Nathan, searching for clues as to the identity of the monster. When he thought about it, he was ashamed that he hadn’t seen the discrepancies sooner. It had been a long time since he’d last been with Nathan, but he should have known. Peter remembered the first time, the words “Always wondered what this’d be like,” and he thought he might have an idea. 

 

Peter worried at the idea for days, testing his theory. Each time not-Nathan came to see him, Peter analyzed each word, each movement for clues to his identity. Nearly a week later, while on his knees with his mouth full of a dick that was too like Nathan’s—same weight, same smell—he looked up to see not-Nathan smiling down at him, and he nearly gagged when he recognized the expression: a cruel, gleeful grin he’d not seen in years. He managed to blank his mind, to hold out until not-Nathan unloaded down his throat. He waited until Sylar was gone to vomit. 

 

Peter didn’t let his discovery slip the next time Sylar came to him. Or the next time. He let Sylar use his body, and he contemplated what he would do when the time came. After a while, Peter wondered if he was waiting for the right moment, or if he was really too broken to act.

 

The next time Sylar came, Peter found himself on all fours, ignoring concrete scraping at his knees while Sylar pounded into him from behind.

 

Peter had his eyes closed. _This time,_ he told himself. _End it. Say something._

 

Sylar fisted his hand in Peter’s hair and pulled back, forcing him to arch his back. “Do you like that?” he whispered. This was the newest torture in Peter’s life: Sylar had developed a taste for talking dirty. Peter shook his head no, and Sylar dropped the grip on Peter’s hair, instead reaching around to grab Peter’s half-hard cock. “Liar,” he hissed. “I know you love what I do to you.”

 

He slowed down his thrusts then, synching them with long, smooth pulls of Peter’s erection until Peter was biting his forearm to keep from crying out. Sensing that Peter was close, Sylar began to speed up again, his hand blurring up and down Peter’s length. “Say my name,” he gasped. 

 

Peter squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on holding back his orgasm, and what he shouted was, “Sylar!”

 

Sylar froze, lodged deep inside, and Peter held his breath. _That’s it,_ he told himself. _At least I’ve said it._

 

Then Sylar chuckled, a deep, rich sound that shook Peter’s body. “Oh Peter. How long have you known?”

 

It hadn’t been real until this moment. He could almost have believed he’d worked it all out wrong, that Nathan would reassure him that he was himself, however changed by the past few years. Peter couldn’t answer. 

 

“I see,” Sylar said softly. “That’s what that little trip down memory lane was all about. A test. So clever, baby brother.”

 

“You’re not my brother,” Peter whispered.

 

“Good. Then this isn’t incest.” He punctuated that statement with a sharp jerk of his hips, and Peter grunted in pain. “You’re sick. Both of you. I mean, what you let him do to you…” Sylar licked a stripe up Peter’s back, and Peter shuddered. “You think I’m twisted?”

 

Peter felt his face flush, and his body slumped in defeat. He’d spent so long being indignant at Sylar, he hadn’t prepared himself for this reproach. 

 

Sylar’s hand, still on his dick, tightened, and Peter’s whole body tensed. “What would he say if he knew you like to come with my dick inside you?” Sylar asked.

 

Peter hated himself for the whimper that escaped. 

 

“I don’t think he’d mind, do you?” Sylar pulled Peter backward by the hips, so Peter ended up in his lap as Sylar braced his back against the wall. “You think he’d like to watch? Nathan always was kind of a narcissist. I bet he’d love seeing you fuck yourself on his cock like this. So eager.”

 

Sylar’s voice was hot and harsh in Peter’s ear, as inescapable as the hand that was again pumping his dick. Peter wanted to struggle, to rage, but he found himself trapped by Sylar’s hand on him, by words that poisoned and sex that burned and pulsed inside of him. Nathan’s face, Nathan’s voice, deep as the ocean, deep as the hole in Peter’s soul, were too much to fight against. Peter was too broken to try.

 

“Shhh. It’s okay, Peter,” Sylar said. “You can cry.” He rocked his hips gently up into Peter, like the motion of rocking a baby to sleep. 

 

Peter cried as Sylar whispered soothing words in his ear and continued pumping his cock, in time with gentle thrusts. “It’s okay, Peter,” Sylar breathed. In Nathan’s voice, it sounded like it could be true. Peter came with Sylar’s hand around his cock.  
******************

 

Sylar had only to walk a few steps down the hall to get to his destination. The guard on duty opened the door for him. Sylar stepped inside, grinning with anticipation. “I brought you a present,” he said.

 

The man in the cell was naked, and a bushy beard obscured part of his face. He glared at Sylar from a corner. Still smiling, Sylar closed the distance between them, kneeling beside the prisoner. 

 

“Open up.” He grabbed the man by the chin, pressing his thumb and forefinger cruelly against the back of the jaw until he opened his mouth. Then Sylar stuck in the two spunk-covered fingers of his other hand. “Do you know what that is? I know it tastes familiar.”

 

The man knew enough not to bite, but he tried to pull his head back. Sylar held him in place. “That’s Peter’s,” Sylar said. 

 

Nathan stopped pulling away, and after a second, Sylar felt his fingers being sucked gently as Nathan cleared off every last remnant of his brother’s semen. The cell wasn’t well lit, but Sylar could see well enough to appreciate the hate in Nathan’s eyes.

 

Sylar removed his clean fingers and sat back on his haunches, regarding the ragged man who bore little resemble to him anymore. “All it took was looking like you,” Sylar said thoughtfully. “All I had to do was show up, and he knelt for me, spread for me. I fucked him wide open, and he begged me for more. He really loves his brother.”

 

Nathan still had enough fight in him not to flinch, not to turn away, and Sylar’s grin widened. He thought he’d taken everything away from Nathan long ago, but Peter was a brand new weapon, and Sylar was eager to see how he could hurt Nathan with it. 

 

“Today was special,” Sylar announced proudly. “You know why? The game’s up. He knew it was me.” For a moment, Sylar dropped his illusion, looking again like his old self. “He recognized his old enemy. Isn’t that sweet?” Sylar restored the illusion, looking at Nathan again with identical brown eyes. “But still, he came all over my hand, Nathan. What does that say about him?”

 

Nathan said nothing, but Sylar could see wounds opening up behind his eyes where he hadn’t been able to reach before. Such lovely pain in those eyes. Sylar wondered idly how far he could push the older Petrelli.

 

“I like keeping you around, Nathan, but if I ever decided I wanted to fly, I’d have to kill you,” he said casually. “I’d be sad about that, because I think it’s what you want.”

 

Nathan didn’t respond. 

 

“But now there’s an alternative, isn’t there?” Sylar said slowly, as if the idea had just occurred to him. “If I had you brother’s ability, I wouldn’t need to kill you. I could keep you forever. What do you think?”

 

Nathan jumped at him, a move so fast and unexpected that Sylar was barely able to raise his hand in time to send the man slamming back into the wall with telekinesis. It was so desperately, futilely brave that Sylar couldn’t help an amused laugh. 

 

“I was wrong about you, Nathan,” he said, kneeling next to the man where he was now slumped against the wall. “I think you are more fun than Peter.”

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylar continues to use the Petrelli brothers against one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the [](http://un-love-you.livejournal.com/profile)[**un_love_you**](http://un-love-you.livejournal.com/) challenge, Prompt 07: Prove It. This (and the next part) were shamelessly encouraged by [](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/)**jaune_chat**

 

Nathan grunted when Sylar’s fist connected with his cheek. He let himself fall to his knees, and readied his hands to deflect a kick. Sometimes Sylar wanted him to defend himself, to struggle against the inevitable defeat, but today Nathan got the impression that Sylar wasn’t looking for resistance. Sylar wanted to hurt him, and he wanted to do it personally: no telekinesis, no burning, just his bare hands. Still, Nathan didn’t want to spend the afternoon pissing blood, so when Sylar’s foot came flying at him, he pushed it aside.

 

“Bad Petrelli.” Sylar’s voice was a warning grumble. He snapped his knee up into Nathan’s chin, sending him sprawling, dazed, to the floor.

 

Sylar flipped Nathan over onto his stomach and straddled his legs. “I give you one little compliment, and you think you can walk all over me.” Sylar shoved two dry fingers into Nathan up to the second knuckle. Nathan’s body jerked at the intrusion, but he was trapped under Sylar.

 

“I don’t have to be gentle with you anymore, since I have my new toy.” Sylar twisted his fingers, boring deeper. Nathan tried to push up, hoping he could unseat the man who was hurting him, but with his free hand, Sylar grabbed Nathan’s hair and pushed his head down. “At least you still have some spine. Peter just lays there and takes it.” He shoved a third finger in beside the others.

 

Nathan made a pained sound, a strangled exhalation, and Sylar stopped. “Did you say something?”

 

Nathan shook his head. Sylar’s hand, the one that had been holding his hair, snaked around Nathan’s neck, tracing the marks there. Nathan held very still. Each scar on his neck marked a time he’d talked back to Sylar. Sylar had choked him, throttled him, slit his throat and knit it back together cell by cell until Nathan’s voice was beyond use. In some ways, Nathan was grateful. He could tell himself that he’d stopped talking back because he couldn’t, not because he was a coward.

 

“No? Nothing?” Sylar tightened a hand around Nathan’s throat for a moment, then relented. “I didn’t think so.” He twisted the hand inside of Nathan, adding a last finger and his thumb as well. Nathan concentrated on not making any noise at all. It wasn’t easy. He’d become accustomed to pain, but this was too much. He tried to picture himself somewhere else: getting roaring drunk with Peter, naked on the couch in his apartment. No, not that one; he couldn’t think of Peter right now. On his father’s yacht sipping a gin and coke. Golfing at the Langston Legacy course with his Secretary of State. Dancing with Heidi at the Time Hotel on New Year's Eve. Nothing worked. Each safe place was shot through with angry red dots as the pain penetrated everywhere.

 

Nathan couldn’t escape the sensations: the concrete cold against his cheek, the strain in his knee from the awkward way it was twisted, the wetness of blood dripping from where he was being torn, and Sylar’s cock hard against his naked leg.

 

“We can try some new things now that I don’t have to worry about keeping you in good shape,” Sylar said pleasantly. He reached under Nathan where his soft cock was pressed painfully into the floor. “Not enjoying yourself?”

 

Sylar scratched his fingernails against Nathan’s dick, that pain piling on top of the other agony. “Of course, you’re not used to being on the bottom. It’s time you know how this feels.” He pushed his arm further in, and Nathan felt a dull bloom of pain overwhelm the rest for a moment. He wondered what Sylar would do if he passed out, and decided he didn’t want to know, so he gritted his teeth and concentrated on staying silent.

 

“Does your brother like this? Hm?” Sylar asked, leaning in close to Nathan’s ear. “You would know. You ever shove your fist inside him, see how much he can take? He wouldn’t tell you no. He’d let you use his body however you wanted. Don’t tell me you never did this.” He curled his hand into a loose fist inside Nathan. His knuckles brushed the prostate, but the sparks of pleasure were overwhelmed by the blinding red pain.

 

“Maybe I’ll try it on him when I’m done here. Make him beg for it.” His voice became high, mocking. “Nathan! Nathan!” He shoved his fist in further. “Hear him moan like a whore. Make him come with my fist inside him. What do you think?” Sylar twisted his arm inside Nathan, and a broken moan finally escaped. Nathan felt warm wetness splash against the back of his leg as the sound took Sylar over the edge.

 

“Now I remember why I keep you around.” He pulled his arm out of Nathan with a sick, wet noise.

 

On his way out, Sylar called to the guards, “Clean him up.”  
********

 

Peter lay on the cold floor of his cell, staring up at the ceiling. Sylar, looking like himself for once, lay beside him, tracing patterns on Peter’s chest with one finger.

 

“Tell me something, Pete,” Sylar said. “When I visit, would you rather I come as Nathan or as myself?”

 

“Don’t come at all,” Peter said weakly.

 

Suddenly Sylar’s finger split the skin of Peter’s chest like a delicate telekinetic scalpel. Peter hissed in pain.

 

“That wasn’t one of the choices, Peter.” Sylar’s voice was calm, almost bored. “Do you want to see Nathan fucking you, or me?”

 

“You’re not Nathan.”

 

The skin split again in another spot. “You miss him?”

 

Peter didn’t want to answer that. Of course he missed Nathan. He’d missed him all the years they’d been apart. Now that he knew Sylar had stolen his brother’s life, that Nathan was gone forever, Peter missed him with a desperation that bordered on hysteria.

 

Sylar traced a hand over Peter’s belly, leaving a shallow cut in its wake. “I asked if you missed him, Peter.”

 

“Yeah.” Peter hated himself for the trembling in his voice.

 

Sylar ran his finger back over one of the bleeding cuts on Peter’s chest. He felt a tingling as Sylar did something to knit the skin back together. Peter wondered idly if it was a new healing power, a refined application of telekinesis, or something else entirely. Peter wondered how many new abilities Sylar had acquired in his guise as Nathan. He wondered if Sylar took the same secret pleasure in flying as Nathan had.

 

“He’s here,” Sylar said suddenly.

 

“What?” Peter held absolutely still, certain he hadn’t understood correctly.

 

“Nathan’s here,” Sylar said. “I keep him around to play with. Same as you, except he’s more fun.”

 

Peter turned his head away. He hadn’t thought it was possible to feel worse than he had a moment ago, but now he did. He didn’t believe for a moment that Sylar was telling the truth, but even the thought made himm sick. Nathan was blessedly out of Sylar’s reach, beyond anyone’s ability to hurt him. This was just another game. It had to be.

 

“You don’t believe me?” Sylar took Peter’s chin in his hand to make him meet his eyes. “Come on.” Sylar stood, pulling Peter with him. “We’re going on a field trip.” He led Peter toward the door, but Peter dug his heels in stubbornly. He didn’t want any more lies. He didn’t want any more pain.

 

“Come on,” Sylar said soothingly, morphing back into Nathan again. He ran a hand through Peter’s short-cropped hair and scratched gently behind his ear. “It’ll be nice.”

 

Peter began to wonder at that point why he was bothering to resist. Sylar would hurt him if he refused, but Peter seriously doubted that anything Sylar had to show him could break him further. He just had to remember not to hope. He ducked his head and followed Sylar.

 

If the guards were surprised by the sight of the President leading a naked man down the hallway, they didn’t show it. Sylar opened the second door on the left and waved Peter through.

 

The room was small and dark with two folding chairs shoved into a corner, but what caught Peter’s attention was the large window. Beyond the glass was a brightly-lit room where two guards had turned a hose on a figure crouched miserably against the wall. Peter found himself drawn to the glass as if by a magnet. One of the guards shut the hose off, and the crouching man lifted his head. He had a wild beard. The skin around his left eye was swollen and blackish-blue, and the eyes themselves seemed dead. It was Nathan.

 

Peter flung himself at the glass, pounding and shouting. “Nathan!”

 

“No use.” Sylar grabbed Peter's hips and pulled him away from the window. “Soundproof.”

 

Peter reached out anyway, touching his fingertips to the window. “Please,” he said.

 

Sylar wrapped his arms tighter around Peter. “Please what?”

 

“Let me see him. Let me talk to him.”

 

“No.”

 

“He’s alive.”

 

“I know. If I turned on the light in here, he could see us. Shall I?”

 

Peter took in his own appearance, Sylar’s possessive hands around his waist, and looked again at the miserable man in the other room. Sylar reached for the light switch, and Peter reached out a hand to stop him. “I don’t want him to see me… with you,” Peter said softly.

 

“Then you can’t see him.” Sylar’s tone was matter-of-fact, final.

 

“Let me go in there.”

 

“No.”

 

“Please.”

 

“What’s it worth to you?”

 

Peter tried to think of something that Sylar hadn’t already taken, and came up blank. “Anything.” He knew it was a stupid thing to say, knew it was exactly what Sylar wanted, but he didn’t care. What could Sylar do that would hurt more than losing the chance to see Nathan?

 

“Prove it.”

 

“How?”

 

“I want you.”

 

“You’ve had me,” Peter said dully.

 

“No. I want you to enjoy it. Next time I come to see you, I want you to prove to me that you want it.”

 

Peter felt sick. It was one thing to lay still and grit his teeth while Sylar used him. It was quite another to actively participate in his own debauchery.

 

Sylar’s hands loosened around his waist. “If you think you’re too weak to handle that, we can leave now.”

 

“No.” Peter placed his hands over Sylar’s, and was rewarded by feeling Sylar relax behind him. Peter stared into the other room where Nathan was curled up on the floor, shivering. “I’ll do it."  


* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathan gets to see Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the [](http://un-love-you.livejournal.com/profile)[**un_love_you**](http://un-love-you.livejournal.com/) prompt 10: I’m broken. Thanks to [](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/)**jaune_chat** for the help.

Nathan wasn’t sure why they’d taken him out of his cell. They’d given him clothes, told him to get dressed, and led him to another room a few doors down. The small, unlit room held two folding chairs, and on one wall was a large window. The room beyond was also dark, and Nathan couldn’t make out anything. He sat down in one of the chairs. It felt strange to be sitting the normal way, instead of crouched on the floor like an animal.

 

A light flipped on in the room beyond the glass, and Nathan blinked as his eyes adjusted. The now-lit room was a bare cell, a mirror image of his own cell. A naked man, painfully thin, stood with his back to the observation window. Nathan felt hope stir he took in the long, smooth lines of the man’s body, the pattern of moles on his back, the soft curve of his ass. It was Peter.

 

He was at once assaulted with feelings of relief and disappointment. Relief at seeing Peter once more, at his being alive. Disappointment that Sylar had told the truth about his being here, trapping and helpless. Nathan hit the palm of his hand against the glass, but Peter didn’t turn. The glass must be soundproof. Nathan sank back into his chair, wondering what Sylar had planned.

 

The door swung open, and Peter turned. Nathan saw himself step into the room, smiling his broad, voter-pleasing smile. Sylar moved just like him: strong body, fluid muscles, confident stride. His face was one Nathan hadn’t seen in the mirror for a long time: a face unspoiled by time and torture. Sylar spoke, and Nathan was glad he couldn’t hear. He didn’t want to hear Sylar’s words in his voice, the voice that had been a major contributor to his vanity. The voice that had caused his speechwriter to say, “My job is redundant. Just read the phone book and smile—voters will fall in love with you.” Heidi had called his voice, “sex for the ear.” Peter had kissed his throat and said, “I love hearing the filthy things that come out of that mouth.” Now Sylar had taken what was Nathan’s, and Peter was nodding at Sylar’s words.

 

Sylar shut the door behind him. Peter stepped closer, bracing his hands against Sylar’s chest, and kissed him.

 

Nathan watched in fascinated horror as Peter’s soft lips melted into his—into Sylar’s. He remembered too well how it felt: Peter opening up so easily, parting his lips to suck in Nathan’s tongue. Peter always tasted clean, even in the morning, sweet and salty, always young and firm and open, eager to take everything his brother gave.

 

Remembering, Nathan licked his lips as he watched what could have been a reenactment of any number of encounters. Now it wasn’t Nathan who Peter was opening for. It wasn’t Nathan’s tongue exploring Peter’s mouth, but he yielded hungrily just the same.

 

Hadn’t Sylar said Peter knew he wasn’t really Nathan? No, Sylar was an expert at lies, an artist at causing pain. If Peter knew that Nathan wasn’t himself, would he be loosening Sylar’s tie, opening himself for Sylar’s mouth as he rubbed his body languorously against him? Lies, all of it. Peter would never… Not for anyone but Nathan. But they’d been apart so long, years since Nathan had tasted Peter, touched him, slipped inside him…

 

And then Peter was dropping to his knees, running his hands gently down Sylar’s sides. One hand came to rest at Sylar’s crotch, hand pale against dark suit pants. Peter was so willing, so eager for it. Even after all these years, even in this hell, Nathan could see that Peter loved his brother. He wanted Nathan. This was proof of it.

 

He watched Peter unzip Sylar’s pants, pull down his briefs and gently, almost reverently pull out Sylar’s half-hard cock. Peter didn’t know—he couldn’t know it wasn’t really Nathan.

 

Watching Peter stroke Sylar’s cock, his cock, Nathan felt blood pooling in his groin. He remembered so well the pleasure of Peter’s hot hand wrapped around him. Slowly, Nathan let his hand drift to the front of his pants, just let it rest there.

 

Now Peter opened his mouth, wrapping those kiss-swollen lips around Sylar’s cock. Nathan remembered how that felt—Peter’s lips squeezing him. It has been years, and why? For what? Why had he pushed Peter away? How could he have said no to that? He rubbed his knuckles against the bulge in his pants as he watched Sylar’s cock disappear into Peter’s mouth, inch after inch. Sylar’s pleasure, written in Nathan’s features, looked wrong somehow. Nathan clenched his teeth as he stroked. Did he ever look like that—cruel and smug? He hoped not, but he knew better. Sylar was undoubtedly putting on a show, had brought Nathan here to gloat, hoping to hurt him with Peter’s eagerness. It didn’t hurt, though, at least not the way Sylar wanted: if Peter didn’t know, then everything Peter was doing, he was doing for Nathan, and, despite his guilt, Nathan wouldn’t deny that Peter’s enthusiasm made him feel very good indeed.

 

Nathan ripped his eyes from the bobbing motion of Peter’s head to glance further down. Peter’s cock was standing out of its nest of dark hair, leaving a wet smear against his belly. Of course, Peter had been known to initiate sex even in the most inappropriate of places. Peter got into it anytime, anywhere, so it wasn’t so surprising that even here, he was enjoying himself with Nathan.

 

Peter licked sloppily up and down Sylar’s cock, and Nathan cursed the soundproof glass between them—Peter had always made the most beautiful noises. That thought was followed immediately by a wave of shame. Peter didn’t know what was happening, and it wasn’t fair. Nathan shouldn’t be enjoying this. He grabbed his erection roughly through the thin cloth of his pants, trying to punish himself, but it didn’t hurt. If anything, it made him harder.

 

Peter was busily stripping off Sylar’s pants, and soon Sylar was on the floor on his back, his proud erection wet with saliva, pointing straight up. Peter planted a knee on either side of Sylar and wrapped a hand around his dick. It was such a beautiful sight. Nathan’s own body, strong and beautiful as it used to be, strained underneath Peter: gorgeous, broken Peter, ready to open himself, to give all of himself, to be used. Nathan slipped his hand inside his pants, hissing as skin met skin. Peter lowered himself slowly onto Sylar, inch by tantalizing inch. Nathan’s fingers wrapped around his hot flesh as if of their own accord, and slowly his hand began to move.

 

Peter was down all the way, fully impaled on Sylar’s cock. It must have hurt, Nathan realized, without any prep. He regretted that the thought did nothing to stem his arousal.

 

Sylar crossed his arms behind his head, making himself comfortable. Seen through the lens of Nathan’s shark-like features, Sylar’s expression of cruel expectancy was positively chilling. Peter seemed to think so, too. As he began to raise and lower himself, riding Sylar with evident enthusiasm, Nathan noticed Peter’s erection was waning. He began to suspect that something was wrong—more wrong than he’d already thought, anyway. Behind his scar, Peter seemed grim, determined as he rode up and down, apparently trying to make the man under him climax as soon as possible. It didn’t seem right: Peter was playful, even in their last few times together, when he’d turned so bitter. Even then, sex was always play for Peter. Nathan felt a cold splash of dread as he thought Peter might not really want to be with him after all.

 

Sylar said something then, and Peter froze. Sylar spoke again, and Peter leaned down to kiss him, opening his mouth again, letting Sylar inside, penetrating with his tongue, claiming. A sliver of jealousy rose up inside Nathan. Even though it was his body Sylar was using, it wasn’t right. Peter—Peter’s mouth, all of Peter’s body—belonged to Nathan. Peter should know. He should recognize that that monster was not his brother. A sharp, quiet voice inside Nathan’s mind whispered that he was a monster too, and Peter could hardly be blamed for mistaking two equal evils. To silence that voice, Nathan stroked himself faster.

 

Peter was sliding up and down again, his erection renewed as Sylar closed a hand around it, jerked it roughly in rhythm with each rise and fall. Peter’s head was thrown back, mouth open, and Nathan could imagine the noises—shuddering moans and frantic, high-pitched rhythmic sighs, cries of “fuck me” and “harder” that inevitably escaped from Peter’s lips as he neared the edge. Nathan closed his eyes, imaging that he could hear Peter’s needy little noises. He ran his thumb over the tip of his weeping cock, spreading pre-come down his length. “Peter,” he breathed, and opened his eyes, wanting to see Peter’s face when he came.

 

The first thing he realized was that a light bulb was on over his head, illuminating the tiny room where he sat. Beyond the glass, Peter and Sylar were on their feet. Sylar had reverted to his own appearance, and had a possessive hand on Peter’s shoulder. Peter didn’t seem surprised by Sylar’s transformation. Instead, he was staring at Nathan, meeting his eyes through glass that was evidently not one-way. “I’m sorry,” Peter mouthed. He’d known. He wasn’t surprised by Sylar’s appearance because he’d known from the start who he was fucking. Nathan pulled his hand out of his pants, his arousal gone and forgotten, and stumbled out of his chair, backing away from the glass.

 

Nathan shook with anger, mostly at himself. Anger and shame. Nathan knew that Sylar was violating Peter, and still he had watched. Still he was selfish and greedy, taking pleasure in some sick, vain fantasy when he knew it was really Sylar fucking his precious little brother. He retreated from the sight of Peter, staggering back until he ran into the opposite wall of the tiny room.

 

“No, I’m sorry!” Nathan read Peter’s lips as he shouted. Sylar had his arms wrapped around Peter’s waist, holding him as he struggled toward the glass. Nathan tore his eyes away and started pounding on the door. Sylar hadn’t lied; Peter knew it was Sylar, and he let him take what was Nathan’s exclusive right. He’d let Sylar use him, he’d enjoyed it. However Sylar had made this happen, the damage was done now. Peter had seen Nathan sitting there watching, getting off on believing that Peter’s actions were really for him. Nathan pounded on the door, resolutely refusing to turn and look at Peter. He’d lost Peter. He’d lost himself.  
********

 

After the guards took Nathan away, Sylar pushed Peter onto the floor and plowed into him as he lay still, in shock. When he finished at last, he lay there petting Peter’s hair. “He saw it all,” Sylar said. “Looked like he was enjoying himself, too.”

 

Peter wanted to say something to defend Nathan, to defend himself, but no words come out.

 

Sylar pressed his thumb into Peter’s mouth. Peter took it. “Is something wrong?” He drew his thumb out and began to stroke Peter’s cheek.

 

“I’m broken.” It slipped out. Peter hadn’t meant to say anything, but that’s what was inside. That’s all that was inside. There was nothing else: no tears, no remorse, no shame, no hope.

 

“Oh Peter.” Sylar leaned in and kissed him, pushing his tongue past unresisting lips. Then he rested his forehead gently against Peter’s. “I’m so glad. Now things will be better, I promise.”  
********

 

After Sylar was gone, Peter curled up in the corner. It was cold. He hurt. He had no idea how much time passed before he felt someone shaking his shoulder.

 

“Peter, get up.”

 

“What?” Peter looked up from his miserable ball on the floor. The Haitian crouched next to him, and suddenly Peter felt something he hadn’t felt in months: power. His abilities were no longer blocked.

 

“Your mother helped me once,” the Haitian said, helping Peter to his feet. “I am going to help you.”

 

Peter felt power flowing through him, healing fighting back the fatigue and pain that had become his constant companions. He felt strong. “Get away from me.” Peter pulled his arm out of the Haitian’s grasp. “You’re as bad as the rest of them.”

 

The Haitian shook his head sadly. “I know what you have gone through can not have been pleasant. But you have to trust me. Without me interfering, you should be able to use your powers. You can get your brother and walk out of here. Come. I’ll show you the way.”

 

“Of course.” Peter put his hands on the Haitian’s shoulders, and felt a brief moment of nostalgia for the man he used to be, the man who might have trusted the Haitian. “Thank you,” he said, and broke the Haitian’s neck.  
*********

 

“Nathan?" Peter called softly. Nathan looked up, seemingly surprised to find himself not alone. It took him a moment to register recognition, and a moment more to skip past suspicion and straight to hate. He buried his face in his arms, turning his back on Peter.

 

_Get away from me, Sylar. It hurts. Please stop. It’s too much like him._

 

“It’s okay, Nathan.” Peter drew closer, kneeling behind Nathan and gripping his shoulders gently.

 

 _Get the fuck away from me!_ Nathan snapped his elbow back at Peter’s face, but Peter felt the move coming, dodged it. Nathan lunged at him, and Peter caught his arm. He was disturbed at how easily he was able to pin Nathan to the ground, wrists held at his shoulders. Nathan had always been stronger, better at grappling, always laughing as he held Peter down and kissed him. Now Nathan fought for a moment more and then went limp, shutting his eyes tightly.

 

 _It’s not really Peter. Sylar would never let us see each other, not after today. He just wants us to suffer. God, it even smells like him._ His eyes drifted open, and, as if against his will, focused on Peter’s face.

 

His wrist pulled against Peter’s hand. Curious, Peter let up. Nathan reached for Peter’s face, tracing the scar with his finger.

 

_That happened after I pushed him away. After we fell apart. I should never have let him go. Everything that’s happened to Peter has been my fault. Let Sylar hurt me. It’s no more than I deserve._

 

His hand fell back, and he went limp again, turning his head to the side. _I was supposed to look after him. He loved me, and I let him down. So many times I failed him. And again today. He saw what I was doing.. He hates me._

 

“I still love you, Nathan,” Peter said.

 

Nathan squeezed his eyes shut tightly. _I wish he’d stop playing and get it over with._

 

“Nathan,” Peter said, desperately. “It’s me. Please believe me.”

 

Nathan opened his eyes, cautiously looking at Peter. Slowly, he reached up, again tracing the scar. _Sylar’s too vain. He hates that I have scars he has to wear. He would have come as Peter before the scar. But… He’d never let us see each other. He got what he wanted from that this afternoon. It can’t be Peter._

 

“Sylar doesn’t know I’m here. I’m getting us out.” Peter felt a momentary stab of hope, and wondered if Claire’s healing ability had fixed that, too.

 

_That’s cruel. There is no getting out of here._

 

“There is for me,” Peter said. Nathan drew his hand back as if burned, and regarded him warily again. “I can read your mind, Nathan. Can Sylar do that?”

 

_I don’t know._

 

“It is me.”

 

“Peter?” His voice sounded like breaking glass. For the first time Peter noticed the scars across Nathan’s throat and realized that Nathan, whose best weapon had always been his silver tongue, biting sarcasm cutting down Peter, building him up, handling him, Nathan had said nothing until this moment. Sylar had taken that away from them, too. But he wouldn’t take any more.

 

“It’s me,” Peter said again.

 

_Please don’t let me be wrong. Please don’t let him hurt me like this._

 

“He’s not going to hurt you ever again,” Peter said. “I’ve got you.” He gathered Nathan in his arms, wincing at how slight his brother seemed. Then he stood, lifting Nathan with him before pulling gently away. “Nice beard,” he said, offering one of his signature half-smiles.

 

Nathan lifted a hand to Peter’s face, touching his fingers to the crooked corner of Peter’s mouth.

 

_It is you._

 

“Yeah, it is.” Peter held him for a moment more. “Can you walk?” he asked at last.

 

_When I’m with you, I can fly._

 

Peter grabbed Nathan’s hands and put them on his shoulders, then braced his own hands against the wall and prepared to phase. “Hold on, Nathan. We’re together. Whatever happens…” He couldn’t bring himself to say that everything would be okay, because it would not be okay, not ever again. “We’re together,” he repeated, and took them through the wall.  


* * *

  
End.


End file.
